Dragonrank master bg-3

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  Fangs bared, Fenrir leaped for Larson and Taziar. Both rolled aside. The wolf landed, claws chewing through frozen ground, the sword lying at its feet. Sweat blurred Larson's vision, turning the glint of moonlight on its steel into a dull glaze. He dove for the crossguard. His reach fell short; he felt the cool metal of its sharpened edge beneath his grip. Then Fenrir's paw slammed down on his knuckles, pinning his hand against the blade. Larson twisted his neck to find himself staring into Fenrir's wide, red jaws. "You can't win, insect! So long as the balance remains tipped toward Law, no one can slay me!" Its open mouth dipped toward Larson.

  There was no time for grace. Larson wrenched backward with a force which strained every muscle in his forearm. The blade slashed his palm as he pulled free, and he tumbled into the center of the clearing. Fenrir tensed. Larson gathered breath, willing his spent muscles to draw him away from the beast's next attack.

  Suddenly, Taziar leaped in front of Fenrir. Weaponless and dwarfed by the bulk of the great wolf, the Cullins-berg man had little chance of deterring Fenrir for more than a few seconds. Larson struggled to weak legs as the wolf raised a paw to dash Taziar aside. Then, Larson noticed the parcel in his companion's hand. Taziar ripped and threw. The bundle struck home, splashing powder across Fenrir's muzzle.

  Fenrir reared backward with a bellow of pain. It bounded through the circle of pines which surrounded the clearing and disappeared between the huddled branches of the trees. Too tired to give chase, Larson listened to the sounds of its stumbling progress until they faded to silence.

  Taziar handed Larson his sword and helped the elf to his feet. Blood showed through the shallow bite on Taziar's arm; apparently, Fenrir had gripped with only his foreteeth. Larson knew the wolfs molars would have crushed the climber's bones to splinters. The gash across Larson's fingers was also superficial.

  Taziar trotted toward the border of the clearing. "I need to find my sword. You better tend Gaelinar." He inclined his head toward the swordmaster.

  Larson cringed, bracing himself to face the newest victim of Fenrir's violence. It had become too familiar. Since Larson's arrival in Scandinavia, one battle had followed another. No longer could he crouch behind a gun and fire at distant shadows and enemies. He had moved beyond counting piles of dead soldiers to confronting gods face to face, sword to sword, sword to tooth. And after-every skirmish, there was more death and more wounds. He realized Fenrir was weakening them all, in increments.

  Larson turned his gaze to Gaelinar. To his relief, the old man was sitting, methodically cleaning his swords with a torn scrap from his golden robe. There was a strange awkwardness to Gaelinar's movements which drew Larson's attention to the Kensei's hands. The right appeared supple and freckled, lacking the depressions between the tendons which marked the atrophy of aging skin and muscle. But the left had swollen to twice its normal size. A ring of purple-black marred the palm, and the protruding fingers appeared thin and yellowed by comparison.

  Larson winced. It's from his run-in with the dragon in Hel. How could I have forgotten? Larson berated himself, though he felt certain Gaelinar had made an effort to hide the injury. He walked to the Kensei's side and flopped to the ground beside him. Peering into the wrinkled countenance, he noticed something even more alarming. Gaelinar's dark eyes had gone dull. His features sagged, blank with defeat. Larson caught his mentor's shoulder. "Are you all right?"

  Gaelinar went still. His voice emerged flat and toneless. "I'm fine. Just fine for an old man."

  Gaelinar's docile manner struck terror through Larson. He felt as if he conversed with a stranger. "What do you mean 'fine'? You're beat to hell." He waved a hand over the tattered, filthy robes and the greenish-brown bruises revealed through the holes. "You look like you swallowed a porcupine. How can you feel fine after fighting a wolf the size of a Clydesdale? And what do you mean old?"

  Gaelinar did not look up from his swords, but his tone became angry and color returned to his features. "If I was strong, no mere animal could best me. My spirit has grown old and tired."

  "Are you stupid?" Larson tightened his grip. "The damn wolf's a god."

  "Just another god." Gaelinar let his sword fall into his lap and looked directly at Larson. "I lost not because of Fenrir's strength but because of my weakness. If I was still strong, you would see a dead wolf here. I failed you. I failed Silme. And I failed myself." He shook free of Larson's hand. "I failed myself, Allerum. That, I can't tolerate."

  Words did not come easily to Larson. He sputtered. "But you heard Fenrir. Right now, no one could kill him."

  "There are no excuses."

  Larson slapped his palms over his face, unable to understand the events which had suddenly turned his arro-gant swordmaster into this self-deprecating "old" man. Disgusted, he stood.

  Before Larson could walk away, Gaelinar caught his hand. "I'm mad at myself, hero, not you. You and the small one bested Fenrir while I lay here like an old lady."

  "Damn it, Gaelinar. I…"

  The Kensei waved his student silent. The glimmer of determination returned to his eyes. "My life and everything I believed in has stood on a table supported by three legs. One leg is duty, one spirit, and the last strength. I've seen beauty and horror beyond most men's imaginings. I also saw my own mortality when Fenrir bested me the second time."

  Larson felt duty-bound to interrupt. "Fenrir didn't best you the first time. He ran away."

  Gaelinar shrugged. "He lived to come back this time. And his return made my life a table with only two legs. My body can no longer do what my spirit demands." He flexed the fingers of his injured hand. "As a two-legged table must fall, I cannot accept less than perfection. But I can accept my own death. And you, hero, must carry on my teachings."

  "Carry on…" Suddenly, Gaelinar's meaning seemed all too clear. "Oh, no. You can't kill yourself. I haven't learned anything.''

  Gaelinar smiled, and all his confident power seemed to return. "I can't kill myself now. I promised to bring Silme back, and I will see that through."

  Larson dropped to a crouch. "But you have more reasons to live. You want me to carry on your way. I've only been with you a few weeks. Surely you have more to teach than that."

  Gaelinar sheathed his short sword. "I've taught you all that one man can teach another. I've trained you to have a bold spirit, a sense of honor, and that death need not be feared. Anything beyond that, hero, you must teach yourself."

  Frustration made Larson angry. "Gaelinar! Cut it out. There's no time for this nonsense. You've been old for a long time. There's a difference between being old and giving up. You talk about bold spirits, but you're afraid to face old age."

  "It's the only time for this 'nonsense.' " Gaelinar rose, catlike. To Larson's relief, he seemed his familiar self again. "Every day, I have grown slower and weaker than the day before. My death may come soon or years from now. But it approaches. I'm not afraid of getting old. I'm not afraid of dying." He slid his katana into its scabbard. "Now, hero. Let's go kill a wolf."

  Gaelinar's talk of death and defeat unnerved Larson. When Taziar approached, sword recovered and sheathed, Larson was glad to abandon his previous conversation. "Shadow. Found it, I see."

  Taziar nodded, but his attention seemed fixed on Gaelinar. He stopped, well beyond sword range, within a step of the darkening periphery of the pine trees. His eyes darted from the bunched figure of the Kensei to the seemingly endless stretch of forest. "I have an idea which may stop the Fenris Wolf."

  Larson's spirit soared. He passed a reassuring glance to Gaelinar.

  "But," Taziar continued, "it would require a few day's journey to the Bifrost Bridge."

  "Bifrost Bridge," Larson repeated. It sounded familiar from his readings of Norse mythology in the Vietnam bunker. He shrugged, wondering why Taziar seemed so nervous. "Why not? We know how to free Silme now. After we go to Hel, we can veer toward this bridge thing."

  At the mention of Silme's rescue, Taziar shuffled a step forward. He pursed his lips in consi
deration then shook his head with resignation. "No, Allerum. I doubt that powder will deter Fenrir long. You two get Silme." He smiled. "Tell her the essential role I had in her resurrection, and convince her she needs a garnet-rank apprentice. I'll take care of Fenrir."

  Larson was beginning to believe he was the only sane man left in existence. "You'll take care of Fenrir, huh? When you're traveling alone and the wolf attacks, I suppose you'll just grab it by the tail and swing it till it cries 'uncle.' "

  Taziar gave Larson a curious look. "Don't worry about me. Once we've separated, Fenrir will go after you, not me." He spoke with a bold certainty which intrigued Larson but changed the subject before the elf could ask the obvious question. "One way or the other, my business won't take as long as yours. I'll meet you near the great falls outside Hel. If I'm not there, don't wait."

  Gaelinar returned the conversation to its earlier tack. "How can you be so certain Fenrir will come after us?"

  Taziar swallowed hard. He shifted from foot to foot, each movement inching him closer to the tree line. His face screwed into a mask of discomfort and guilt, but his tone sounded apologetic. "Forgive me, my friends. I can't hold this secret from you any longer. Two weeks ago, I freed Fenrir from centuries of bondage and allowed him to hunt down his father's slayers."

  The news shocked Larson. He recalled Taziar's reckless courage against the wolf, and, suddenly, it all came together. Larson gathered breath to question further.

  But in the instant it took Larson's mind to register the meaning of the words, Taziar had faded into the shadows of the woodlands and quietly disappeared.

  CHAPTER 9: Master of Fate

  "Yet they, believe me, who await No gifts from Chance, have conquered Fate."

  – Matthew Arnold Resignation

  After the evening sword lesson, the first night of Larson's and Gaelinar's journey progressed in tense silence. Never one to speak unless he had something important to say, Gaelinar left Larson alone with his thoughts. And, as they retraced their earlier route through the pine forest, Larson found his own contemplations disquieting. He considered his mental struggle with Fenrir, the battle between the wolf and Vidarr which had ignited random memories, and his own careful and taxing trap which walled Vidarr into a corner of his mind. None of it seemed possible, yet the gods' manipulations had become too familiar to deny or condemn with simple logic.

  The world faded to an endless blur of shadows as Larson continued to look inside himself. Apparently, he lacked the natural, anatomical barriers which protected people of this era from gods and sorcerers who would manipulate their thoughts. Until the previous morning, he had believed that defect left him helpless against such attacks. Now he had discovered a weapon, albeit weak and untrained. He could not help but wonder whether practice might strengthen his skills. If so, his mind and memories could become his own again.

  As he walked, Larson rehearsed imagining walls. He pictured brick, stone, wire, and mortar without difficulty, but they had no relation or corresponding location in his mind. Each was just a barrier floating in his thoughts like any other conjured fantasy. They lacked the reality of time and place Larson had imparted to the wall he'd used against Vidarr while the god and he were standing within his mind. Larson considered. Perhaps that's it. I need to be inside myself to erect a solid barrier. The proposition intrigued him. He tried to place himself into his thoughts. But although he could picture himself among the circuitry which represented his brain, he could not actually work himself into his own mind. Apparently, that procedure required an outside force or being to trip his memories.

  Larson relaxed, trying to view the puzzle from the other side. Maybe I can build the walls while outside my mind, but I have to be inside to set them in place. It seemed as likely as any other conclusion; anything seemed possible when dealing with a situation as absurd as treating thoughts and memories as physical entities. If so, practice might hone my abilities. He returned to mentally drawing walls. He imagined barbed wire fences, prison barricades, and great castle bastions. He tried to consider each invented partition as a step toward mental freedom, but he only managed to make himself feel foolish. I'm probably wasting my time. Even if I'm on the right track, I can't be certain I'm crafting the walls correctly. And, as Gaelinar has often said, "Practicing a maneuver incompetently is worse than not practicing at all. ''

  Larson abandoned his psychic enterprise, and turned his attention elsewhere. Tree branches and dark wisps of cloud striped the full moon, dappling the forest with shadows. Gaelinar slipped quietly between the needled branches, his posture alert, prepared for Fenrir's next attack. The realization turned Larson's thoughts to the wolf. Fenrir claimed no one could kill it, yet it refused Gaelinar's challenge in our last fight. Larson recalled Fenrir clutching Gaelinar by the back of his robes, the wolf bunched and angered by the swords at its throat. If Fenrir truly could not be slain, why didn't it shake Gaelinar? Why did it run from us when Shadow's powder blinded it? Why bide time between attacks?

  Larson closed the widening gap between himself and Gaelinar, intending to bring his questions to his mentor. But the Kensei's solemn expression convinced him otherwise. Why do I expect Gaelinar to know the answers any more than I do? Apparently, part of being unslayable is knowing when to retreat. Or, more likely, Fenrir lied. The certainty of defeat could damage our morale, making us easier to conquer. Besides, even the will of the Fates can be overthrown. According to Vidarr, it was Loki's destiny to survive and lead an assault against the gods of Law. No Norse mythology book I ever read mentioned a dead American soldier from 'Nam.

  The night dragged on. Heavy cloud cover obscured the gradual lightening of the sky toward dawn. Freezing drizzle pattered against the tight umbrella of overhanging branches, and very little penetrated to the travelers beneath it. A hearty dinner whittled their supplies dangerously low but brought sleep easily to exhausted men with full bellies.

  Early in the cycle of slumber, Larson felt a pressure in his mind. Doubts prickled through his thoughts, strangely alien. He lay in half repose, dimly aware of the intrusion. It seemed to him like the moments before sleep, when reality fades to dream and the implausible mingles with the concerns of the previous day. This odd sense of uncertainty winked out with unnatural suddenness, as if suppressed. A wavering image filled Larson's awareness. Gradually, it solidified, forming into the contours of a face, its skin and hair dark as the depths of Hel. It was not a racial, human blackness but rather the solid, gun-metal hue of a panther. High, arched cheekbones formed hollows for eyes the color of fresh blood. A sharp chin and gaunt, cadaverous features gave an impression of points and angles.

  Bramin! Larson struggled to awaken. Foreign frustration rattled through his mind, choked off with the same abruptness as the uncertainty. Larson jarred awake. He stared into a chaotic jumble of branches and a broken array of muted sunlight. The clicking of insects formed a strange duet with the ceaseless rattle of the rain. Carefully, Larson reoriented. He held sleep at bay long enough to convince himself of the reality of the forest and to recognize Bramin's image as fleeting fantasy. Then he closed his eyes and allowed himself to drift off again.

  Sleep returned almost immediately, and with it the same entity which had conjured Bramin's features. Some portion of Larson's unconscious acknowledged the being and mistakenly dismissed it. This time, the dream weaver made certain not to reveal its own emotions as it fashioned Larson's thoughts. The picture of Bramin again sharpened into existence. The half man's eyes seemed to flay Larson. Thin lips twisted into a malicious sneer, and Bramin's voice wound through Larson's consciousness. "… To save you from my sorceries, Silme linked her life aura to mine… Her fate and mine have become one… If you kill me, you kill Silme, too!"

  Despair rushed down on Larson. No! He struggled against the memory and momentarily caught another glimpse of waking reality. The intruder's emotions pulsed against him, a mixture of guilt and sudden desperation, then it pummeled Larson with a collage of memory: Bramin demandin
g the sword which held Vidarr prisoner; Bramin sweeping his blade with dazzling speed; Bramin pounding his fist repeatedly into Larson's face, his knuckles striped red with blood. The images relentlessly howled through Larson's mind bringing with them remembered tortures, guilt, grief, and violent pain. Each new angle struck Larson like a physical blow. He spun, ran, blundered into another memory carefully placed by the intruder. Bramin's laughter pulsed through Larson's mind, heavy with hatred. Sparks splashed across Larson's vision, then the dark elf stood before him again, hand raised in threat.

  Larson cringed away as Bramin's spell ripped into him. Agony stabbed and spiraled, stealing strength from body and soul. Larson heard his own screams as distant echoes. Then, abruptly, the assault stopped. The visions of Bramin disappeared. The pain subsided. Larson found himself standing in a clearing in the pine forest, panting from mental exertion. He was gripping his drawn sword as if fighting some unseen enemy. When he sheathed it, he discovered the knurling on the hilt had left a ring of diamond-shaped impressions across his palm.

  Gaelinar knelt at the edge of the clearing, watching Larson curiously. "Dream?"

  Larson considered. He could vaguely recall a presence in his mind before the sequence had started, and it lacked the cold courage of Bramin, Loki, or the Fenris Wolf. Those three had sparked painful memories with malicious pleasure while the entity who conjured the facets of Bramin seemed almost apologetic. '.'No," he replied carefully. "Not a dream. Excuse me for a moment, please. I need to discuss this with someone."

  Gaelinar shrugged, too accustomed to Larson's oddities to comment further.

  Larson sat on a dry circle of fallen needles. He gathered as much accusation and resentment as he could, then focused all his concentration on a single word. Vidarr!